(Revised) Keeping A Straight Face | ✏️

Chapter 2

Taylor's POV

The front door swings open with a creak. Dim white streetlight and what little remains of the greyed-out sun spill in, casting hazy shadows on the shoe rack next to the floormat. Taking in a breath and noting the quiet stillness of the house, I step inside.

On good evenings in the Ferguson household, you would see Mum in the lounge-room watching an episode of Desperate Housewives, her favourite show, with a steaming cup of peppermint tea. Ana wouldn't be far, either blasting some punk-rock song in her headphones (that I'm sure are slowly deafening her) or calling her best friend Lola to talk about their cars. I'd either be texting Darko, or thinking of a song I'd want to practice on the piano, or thinking about Darko while playing the piano. Even though we weren't all interacting with each other, it was always nice to just do our own thing in the same space. The company made the house feel warm and alive.

Tonight's not one of those nights.

"Ana? I'm home!"

A tired hum sounds from the kitchen. Locking the door behind me and kicking off my shoes, I glance at the small weeping Buddha statue perched on a bookshelf. Dad always told me to rub his back during hard times to bring peace, happiness, and strength. He wasn't a devout Buddhist, but his parents were, so some cultural things passed onto him and onto me and Ana.

Ah, what the hell. I rub the statue's back, cleaning off the dust collecting there.

Passing the loungeroom, I enter the kitchen, dropping my schoolbag on the dining table. Ana stands at the far end of the room, her head poking inside the cupboard. She still has her work overalls on; it wouldn't surprise me if she got grease on the kitchen countertop.

"Welcome back. Looks like we're having tom yum noodles tonight, Mum didn't cook and I assume you can't be bothered to either. And, fuck if I'm cooking after the slaving away I just did on your car. For free, by the way." she plucks a soup bowl and an instant-noodle packet from the pantry. She gestures to me, asking if I want a serve. I nod. She reaches back in and produces another.

Ana looks much more like Mum than I do. Our Dad was Thai, and our Mother Cambodian. I definitely took after our father more than Ana did, and vice versa. Her face is rounder, not as sharp and pointy as mine apparently is.

Even so, people say we look similar, but I really don't see it.

I sit by the table. "Where's Mum? Everything okay?"

Ana sighs, waving a dismissive hand in the air. Her focus is on the slow rumble of the electric kettle, the bubbling of the water getting louder by the second. "She's in her room. I wanted to check on her, but... yeah. I guess things are okay, considering. I haven't heard her cry in a bit, so, there's that."

Understanding, I nod. Ana went on to explain everything that happened — Mum had come home after work. Ana was outside busy with my car. Ana assumed things were fine, but an hour later she heard crying and yelling in the house. She ran straight inside. Mum, hysterical and in tears, ditched a dinner plate onto the kitchen's tiling, sending chips of ceramic flying everywhere. Ana saw an empty bottle of whiskey behind her, precariously placed on the edge of the dining table. Ana hugged her until she stopped crying, then told her to rest in her bedroom. By the time Ana settled her down and threw away the whiskey bottle, Mum was fast asleep.

While drinking isn't anything new, smashing things is. She has been moodier lately – maybe it's the medication. She has been taking a new prescription as of late. Then again, she shouldn't be mixing it with alcohol too.

By the time Ana's done recounting the afternoon, her hands are visibly shaking. "Look in the bin. Mum smashed something else."

I cock an eyebrow. "What?"